


Wyfe and Quene

by seterasilence



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Arthurian AU, Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale is the Lady of the Lake, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Excalibur, F/F, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Good AUmens AU Festival, Ineffable Wives, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Magic, Not Really Character Death, Once and Future King AU, Queen of Air and Darkness - Freeform, Seers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:26:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24901522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seterasilence/pseuds/seterasilence
Summary: In the final battle between Mordred and King Arthur over the fate of Camelot, Crowley--a sorceress of the Queen of Air and Darkness--must save Aziraphale, Avalon's lady of the lake, from certain doom.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 62
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	Wyfe and Quene

**Author's Note:**

> An Arthurian AU written for the Good AUmens AU Festival. Beta'd with love by @insertnerdyjokehere (okay fine, you're right, I don't ever write happy things, but that won't stop you from being my beta, ha!)

Blood and gore coated Crowley’s black armor. She swung her sword, matching blades with her advancing foe and then chopping down the knight. Horses screamed and a heavy cover of blue-tinged fog covered the sky, making the battle feel like one long, endless night. Crowley breathed hard as she stepped in the mud to meet her next opponent. She could barely see through the slit in her helmet. No honor existed in this final war. Men and magicians fought like animals. Any order had succumbed to chaos.

In the distance, the bright ethereal light of Excalibur clashed with the black blade of Mordred, sending out rays that nearly blinded both sides. Crowley knew the sorceresses of air and darkness would win this war. Their dark prince would defeat He Who Must Be King. It had been foretold in the bone runes of their witches, in the entrail readings of their sorceresses. The darkness would extinguish the light of Avalon, the air would suffocate the purity of the lake women. The sorceresses would take their revenge for being cast out of the island of apples. They would destroy the prosperity and respect of the light-priestesses. They would leave the squabbling kings to their idol on the cross, their bishops, their heaven and hell. 

Simply put, the sorceresses worshipping the queen of air and darkness hated Avalon. Avalon had blessed Camelot. So Camelot must fall.

 _Where are you?_ Crowley thought, her thirsty blade quenched in the bowels of a soldier. _Why can’t I find you?_

Arrows peppered the bloody ground. Purple lighting cascaded through the misty clouds. The monsters risen by the sorceresses cawed and growled. Beaks dug into eyes. Claws slashed through throats. Crowley grimaced. The old-fashioned way of searching this bloodshed was not working, especially with all the chaos and dying, and she didn’t have time to waste. She unraveled her power. Black tendrils snaked from her and swept across the battlefield like hunting hounds, eager for one specific scent. 

The power of Excalibur rumbled through the earth, matched with the victory cries of the squirmy things that writhed and killed. There was too much noise, too much wild uncontrolled power drowning out her senses. Tears pricked Crowley’s eyes. _Why can’t I find you? I need to find you. Things aren’t good._

She saw Arthur’s golden crown, his armor of white, his cape of red. Mordred swung for him, the helmet of antlers covering his face. His rage infused the air as he stabbed Arthur through the chest. 

Arthur staggered. The King would fall. The Round Table would fall. 

Crowley wrenched her helmet off. Her red braid fell down across her shoulder. The hiss of her black tendrils spoke of success— _here, she’s here, over here._ Taste vibrated up the coil of power: gritty stardust, parchment, clean water. An angel. She followed its call.

The lady of the lake was not fit for battle. Aziraphale was a seer, a magical priestess of strength, but she should not be fighting such darkness like this, not in the name of thrones and coin. Aziraphale’s broadsword caught what light lingered—a mixture of filtered sunlight and refracting magic—but too many soldiers and monsters overwhelmed her. Crowley cried out her name, running for her. Aziraphale’s blade severed off huge spider legs, chopped the legs off huge crickets with hungry pincers, but it was the human that got her. A sword right through her stomach just as Mordred screamed his victory. 

Crowley skidded in the mud. Her blade decapitated the knight. The dark fanged shape of her shadows crushed the other monsters. Those same shadows caught Aziraphale as she fell, held her until Crowley had her arms around her. 

“Bad luck, it seems.” Aziraphale smiled, her teeth bloody. 

“You idiot,” Crowley said, wishing she could kiss her, dread new in her stomach. “It’s just a flesh wound, ignore it. I’m here now and I have you.”

“I saw Arthur fall,” Aziraphale said, tears falling down her dirtied cheeks. “It really is over. Your side won.”

“There are no sides. Not with us,” Crowley snarled. That was an old argument, a stupid argument. She yanked Aziraphale’s arm over her shoulder, taking her weight. The mist became a rapid-moving fog, transforming into the veils of priestesses, the sashes of sorceresses. 

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale said, looking at Crowley in that soft scared way, the way she looked whenever a vision had shaken her, when she’d spout off insanity about how priestesses shouldn’t love sorceresses. How their union would mean their undoing. Her hand clenched her middle. Blood seeped through her fingers. 

“Trust me,” Crowley said, putting her own hand over Aziraphale’s wound.

Aziraphale’s look became a tender one and Crowley hated that more than ever. It left her fangs pressing against her mouth, eager to strike. For a tender Aziraphale was an Aziraphale full of either love or death—and it wasn’t Crowley’s kisses that left Aziraphale panting, it wasn’t Crowley’s hands that left Aziraphale flushed.

This was the other one. The bad one.

“I always trust you,” Aziraphale whispered. “I love you.”

  
***

_Crowley had been a small child when she’d been expelled from Avalon._

_What did she remember? The screaming, for one. The flames and rope. The blood on the mosaic tile of the Holy Mother as like turned against like._

_Her foster mother burned to a crisp on the pyre for her beliefs, spouting that the queen of air and darkness was rising, that she would turn this world black with her might. That the priestesses of Avalon needed to accept the transformation into sorceress, welcome the dark soul of the queen and spurn the Holy Mother. When the fire died out, her bones had turned to charcoal, but at that point the sorceresses spurned words for magic to kill the priestesses, and the priestesses used swords._

_What did she remember? She’d run, following her surviving foster family as they fled the island. At some point, she’d tripped and fallen. Her small black-tipped fingers splayed on the face of the Holy Mother carved into the floor. The shadow of an axe arched over her, ready to take her head. She heard a high-pitched scream of denial and a sudden weight covering her body._

_The shadow disappeared. Soft fur brushed her cheek. She looked up to see that a flaxen-haired girl protected her: not that much older than she, marked with the half moon ownership of Avalon tattooed on her forehead. Too young to be claimed by the Mother, but when did that ever stop Avalon from getting the initiates they wanted? A hood of white ermine covered the girl’s head as she eased off Crowley. Summer-blue eyes rimmed in black kohl caught Crowley’s golden ones, and the young girl touched Crowley’s jaw, asking a breathless question, “Are you alright?”_

_Crowley had heard of winged goddesses, the most beautiful beings in the world, who worshipped the man on the cross, had heard stories of creatures with all-powerful eyes keeping watch over a god’s son who died on a crucifix. She’d listened to her foster mother rage about the crossed man coming to destroy the old ways, that he was followed by angels. That’s what this girl was. An angel._

_“Run,” the girl said, taking Crowley’s hands and helping her stand. “You have to get out of here.”_

_The shadow-monsters of the queen loomed above the flaxen-haired girl. They wrapped around her ankles and wrenched hard, sending the angel to her knees with a gasp of pain. Crowley clung to her, but the shadows roped around her and dragged her into their maw. Fingernails scored Crowley’s wrists._

_What did Crowley remember? She remembered feeling her heart cry out as she stumbled into a boat that fled Avalon. She remembered being cold and alone on the shores of mankind. She remembered the absolute knowledge that it wasn’t the sorceresses or the priestesses who tried to save her, but an angel, and that angel had died._

***

Crowley staggered to the edge of the water. Her breath wisped out of her mouth to join the fog lifting off the lake, obscuring the island of apples beyond. A ramshackle boat waited under the low-lying willows. Crowley felt the world shiver with detachment, as if Avalon was trying to unmoor itself from this plane of existence. 

Aziraphale leaned heavily into her. Blood caked along her stomach, painting her side in a mass of red. Pink blooms lit her cheekbones, but the rest of her had become so pale. The waxing and waning phases of the moon tattooed in an arc across her forehead stood out—the symbols of a lady-of-the-lake priestess. Black kohl ran down her cheeks, an indication that at some point, the angel had cried during their escape from the final battle between their kind.

Crowley nudged her down the bank, taking most of her weight as they staggered into the water. With gentle hands, Crowley eased Aziraphale to a stand still and turned to get the boat. It was an old thing, the wood sun-bleached to gray, the oars cracked, but it would float. Once she loaded Aziraphale into it, the angel would be able to find her way across. Aziraphale would end up back in Avalon where her fellow priestesses would nurse her back to health. She’d be safe.

The world shifted again. The bindings holding Avalon to the realm of mankind stretched like taffy. The fog lifted. Torchlight glowed in the distance, allowing Crowley to glimpse the familiar arches and pillars of her childhood home. _Avalon._

She could never go back. She’d been thrown out of that ancestral home when her foster mother cut ties with the Holy Mother—and she, a child of evil through association. She’d never really wanted to return. She never could.

Down the bank, dark shapes cast off from the shore and slid through the silent waters. Other priestesses, taking their beloved humans and dying friends to the Holy Mother’s haven. If Crowley looked hard enough, she imagined she could see Morgaine holding Arthur’s hand as their skiff floated closer to the misty isle. 

Aziraphale would be safe there. The angel would be with her people, her sisters, her faith. 

And Crowley would be on this side, with the humans and the shadows. It was better this way.

She pulled the boat out of the weeds and motioned Aziraphale over. Aziraphale’s blue gaze had followed hers, studying the retreating priestesses with a frown on her face. The moonlight swam in her eyes. Crowley breathed out slowly, knowing she’d need to be firm.

“Get in the boat, angel,” Crowley said, holding one side to keep it steady.

Aziraphale looked at her in growing horror. The world twisted violently this time, a dog thrashing a bone. She took a step back, the water up to her knees. “No,” she whispered. 

“You have to get in the boat.” Crowley sloshed the thing closer. Steel had been forged in her heart, a steady strength she’d prepared before the battle. She knew what was to come, but her one and only vision of prophecy would not come to pass. She wouldn’t allow it. This was the future Crowley would make happen: Aziraphale would go to Avalon because Avalon was safe. She would flourish there, with the grand library of magic books. Her dreams would be gentle there, nothing like the brutality of the visions she experienced on mankind’s soil. 

“I won’t be able to come back,” Aziraphale said, tears in her eyes. “Avalon is breaking from this realm. If I get in that boat, we’ll never see each other again.”

“We can try. Like we did before, in our dreams,” Crowley lied. She’d been called a temptress with her big golden eyes and willowy form by men, but she couldn’t use those wiles on Aziraphale. Instead, she used the temptations of tenderness, of compassion, of promises such as _in Avalon, anything is possible._

“It won’t be the same.” Aziraphale backed away a step.

“Aziraphale, if you don’t get into this boat, you will die.” Crowley’s voice cracked. “I’d rather you be alive and never see you again than have you die in my arms. Now, get in the damned boat.”

Aziraphale shook her head slowly. “I won’t. I’ll stay here. With you.”

Crowley’s laugh was bitter, as cold as the lake water soaking into her boots. “Break from your generational home? Never hear the voice of the Holy Mother again? I’m not enough to keep you here, angel. At some point, you’ll grow tired of me and these human wars. You’ll wish you were imprisoned in a tree like Merlin. I love you more than life itself, but get in the fucking boat, angel.”

Aziraphale shook her head again. Crowley lunged for her and grabbed her wrist. She hadn’t wanted to use force, but she would do what she had to do. Aziraphale simply wouldn’t obey her. Her shadow-serpents bound Aziraphale’s thighs together, wrapped tight around her chest, and began to lift her. Bright light pierced through the serpents, making them fall apart into rivulets of water. The light struck, wrapped around Crowley’s throat as a skeletal hand with long nails, the symbols of a lady of the lake tattooed along the fingers. The fingers squeezed, just enough pressure to make Crowley tremble, before Aziraphale’s strength gave and the hand released her. 

“I swore a vow,” Aziraphale said, walking as well as a mortally wounded woman could back onshore. “I made a choice. I won’t be forced into that contraption unless you plan on coming with me.”

“You know I can’t,” Crowley said, her throat tight. She wondered if she could trick Aziraphale into the boat with coddling lies, push off without getting in, but she didn’t have the strength to deceive her so directly. “You know I’ve been exiled. I’ll be burned at the stake the moment I set foot on Avalon-soil. Please, I’m begging you. Get in the boat.”

“You don’t know what you ask of me, Crowley.”

“I’m asking you to live, angel!”

Aziraphale staggered in pain and grabbed her stomach, but pinned Crowley with that blazing stare. “What will become of you if I go?” She sounded exasperated.

Crowley shrugged. “Me? Nice little shack in the woods. Become a proper spinster. The evil witch who tempts good Christian children into her kiln. Avoid mankind as much as I can.”

Aziraphale huffed a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“No, you are. Boat, angel. Now.”

“I apologize for the inconvenience, but my future constitutes of becoming an evil witch in the woods with my handfasted wyfe.”

Crowley brought the boat closer to shore. “I’m your quene, thank you. Wyfe has the stink of Avalon on it. We agreed to go the air and darkness route.”

“Quene, regina, star of my light, love of my life, whatever you wish, I’m not getting in that boat.”

“I won’t let you die, Aziraphale.”

“Then it's settled,” Aziraphale said, even though nothing had been settled at all as far as Crowley was concerned. “You’ll take me to _my_ lake.”

  
***

_The sorceresses of the queen of air and darkness lived in the woods. There, among the green hills and tall swaying trees, Crowley learned how to transform into a serpent and slither through the undergrowth. She learned the arts of shaping the night, of bringing into being stars and the swallowing black. Magic wove into her blood, the ability to cast the darkness out into the world, the control over the air to make the sun shine or the rain come._

_Whispers of the encroaching crossed-god reached her ears, of how an antlered devil made the women of Avalon outcast from the courts of kings. How the bishops of the crossed-god looked down on the wisdom of women, and asked the Avalon women to hold their tongues. Had called the Holy Mother a whore._

_The sorceresses laughed, keeping their counsel. The priestesses were weak, nothing but cattle to be slaughtered at the hands of this new god. Let Avalon make proclamations and promises with the kings of Britannia, let the man on the cross into their lives, into their beds. This, among other reasons, was why the sorceresses had broken with Avalon._

_Even so, Crowley listened for tales of angels around the evening bonfires, thinking of the one that had died to save her when she’d been a young girl. She dreamed of flaxen hair and summer-sky eyes during her waking hours as she roasted rabbits in the flame, dreams that followed her into her sleep, tucked against her sisters and aunts for warmth. In the land of man, there was nothing soft for the sorceresses. Hard ground and charred meat painted Crowley’s days. The love of the Queen was a rough thing, and Crowley found herself longing for companionship. She yearned for days when she didn’t have to compete with her sisters, when she didn’t have blood on her lip or bruises marring her arms from fights and tricks and cruel games._

_As Crowley’s magic grew, she sloughed off the childhood lines of her body and entered womanhood. The sorceresses crooned over her with jealous fingers, brushed her red braids back with envy, told her she would be a beautiful bride for the Queen. When Crowley was old enough, her aunts and sisters painted the symbol of emerging fertility on her stomach. They stripped her of her furs and leathers, placed a woven crown of flowers on her head, pulled the mask of leaves and grass over her sharp features. Thusly stripped of identity, they ushered her into the cave of stones, a forge where new sorceresses communed with the Queen._

_There, Crowley would become a minor quene of the air and darkness, forever handfasted to the goddess of destruction and death. The Queen would send one of her monsters to break Crowley’s hymen, usher her into the fold of the blood-bound. Her magic would never fade. Her allegiance would be secured._

_In the cave of stones, small fires surrounded both a summoning and a fertility circle, painted with sacrificial blood from writhing snakes—Crowley’s chosen animal form. Naked, she laid down on an elongated altar. Above her, the cave walls glimmered with silver and gold veins. Stalactites extended down towards her like knives. She shivered and forced her hands down at her sides. Her fingers tapped on the stone._

_“How long is this supposed to take? What’s supposed to happen? What am I supposed to do?”_

_All questions she’d poised to her aunts and sisters, who’d told her to hold her tongue, told her the instincts of a quene would take over her. Now, she voiced them to the cavern, and heard the response as nothing but an echo. She swallowed hard, and felt a warm brush of air breeze over her._

_Shooting up on her elbows, she saw a young woman standing near the covered entrance of the cave. Blonde hair piled up around her head, pincushioned with flowers, the kind that used to fill Avalon’s vases. White gauze veils cascaded down over her body from a thick gold necklace, showing gaps of skin painted with symbols, flowers, and leaves. The young woman crossed her arms over her large breasts as if shy. The rich smell of apple blossoms filled the Crowley’s nostrils._

_Crowley’s mouth went dry. What was this? Was the Queen fulfilling Crowley’s secret desire? Did the Queen mask the monster meant to claim her so that all she saw was the angel? That girl had died and even now, Crowley dreamt of her, had endless fantasies where the two of them met and talked and laughed._

_Crowley held her hands out. This had to be a test. One that questioned Crowley’s dedication to the Queen. Crowley was even more than willing._

_The angel hesitated, blinking in awe at Crowley. Two new moon phases bracketed the main one on her forehead, a sign of great power for one so young. Crowley would expect nothing less. The angel bit her lip, anxiety radiating from her, and then slowly, she eased closer to the stone slab, slipping her hand into Crowley’s._

_If Crowley were a willow, then this piece of illusion was a rosebush: plump and flushed pink, upturned nose, curves that Crowley wanted to sink into. “Come and take your white dress off,” Crowley whispered._

_The angel smiled, a bashful flash of dimples, and climbed on the stone. Crowley bracketed her hips with her calves, sitting up further to study this…gift. If the angel had lived, if the shadows of the Queen hadn’t dragged her away into the darkness…this was what the angel would be now. Full of life, full of power, and just like Crowley, being initiated to the Holy Mother. Crowley scooted closer, knees now along the angel’s hips. The angel seemed just as enamored. Tentatively, she touched Crowley’s braids, hefting the heavy weight of the red plaits in her palm. Then, just as gently, she tugged on those braids and brought Crowley’s mouth against hers._

_Crowley opened eagerly, sliding tongue against tongue. She wanted more, would always want more, so she eased closer, hips now bracketed by thighs. She ran her hand down the angel’s back and felt a warm palm slide up her chest to carefully trace the outline of her breast._

_Crowley shuddered. If the Queen was this kind, this magnanimous to her followers, Crowley would do anything to keep this. The kiss deepened. A rolling heat clenched deep within Crowley, as if a new fire had been lit with touches and looks. She whimpered and wrapped her arms around the angel, gasping as the angel trailed her fingers down further, spreading the wet heat between Crowley’s legs. Crowley copied, she’d always been a fast learner, and soon enough she had the angel panting, “Holy Mother, Holy Mother.”_

_Crowley wanted to climb inside the angel. She felt light-headed, a rush thudding in her blood that spoke of possession and desire and want. Her tongue traced down the angel’s neck, pushed her onto her back, used her mouth where her hands used to be until the angel trembled and cried out. Then, the angel nudged her back up until they kissed messily with both hands exploring deeper, searching further. They shared the sudden spike of pain, the blood on their fingers, and the angel looked into Crowley’s eyes as if she’d made the stars and whispered, “Thank you, Holy Mother.”_

_“Bit strange for the Queen’s shadow to say such things,” Crowley laughed. “Thank the Queen of air and darkness.”_

_A frown line appeared between the angel’s blue eyes. “Don’t blaspheme.”_

_Crowley pulled back, just enough to really look into the angel’s eyes. “But…you’re a shadow. Virgin rite and all that. Bring me into my power.”_

_The angel looked confused. “No, you’re the light. This is the virgin rite to bring me into my power. This isn’t real. This is an illusion.”_

_Crowley’s hands tightened on the angel’s arms. “No, this is real. I’m real. You…you’re alive? Do you remember me?”_

_The angel pulled back, her gaze gone soft with wonder. She pushed the mask off Crowley’s face, and laid her hand along Crowley’s cheek. “Someone tried to kill you with an axe…”_

_“Yes and you saved me, and then you got dragged away by the darkness.”_

_A sad shadow flickered over the angel’s face._

_“I thought you’d died,” Crowley insisted._

_“I almost did,” she said._

_“Where are you?” Crowley demanded, holding the angel tighter. “Wherever you are, I’ll come to you.”_

_“I’m in Avalon,” the angel said and looked around, studying the cave’s glimmer. “Where is this?”_

_“The land of man,” Crowley said. The angel in her arms suddenly felt colder, as if the warmth of her soft body had begun to leak away. The blood on her hands was the only evidence that this was real. “You’re fading.” Her hands tightened, but like sand through her fingers, the angel had begun to disappear._

_“Angel, what’s your name? Tell me your name. I’m Crowley.”_

_The angel’s nose scrunched a little. “Why are you calling me that?”_

_Crowley didn’t have time to explain. The angel was barely there, a shadow of light that caught the glimmer of gold and silver. “How can we find each other again?” she demanded, desperate._

_The angel hesitated, as if unsure, but then kissed Crowley. Crowley’s lip tingled. Then, she felt a burn sizzle against the wet inside of her lower lip. Like a brand._

_“Maybe in a dream,” the angel said. “It’s Aziraphale.”_

_Then, she was gone and Crowley’s arms were empty._

***

How long had they been walking through the forest? The fog thickened, growing into a white wall where the trees were shades and the mountains had disappeared. Crowley had lost all sense of direction. Frustrated tears stung her eyes. Aziraphale had become too quiet, leaned too heavily into her. Crowley spoke nonsense stories of their past to keep them both present. To keep Aziraphale from slipping away from her.

“Remember that time we got drunk at the jousting tournament?” Crowley said, her arms aching. “How you fell into the water trough and then had to actually disappear into it or else we would’ve gotten caught? I laughed so hard I made myself sick. Lady of the lake soaked to the bone with graywater full of hay and horse snot.”

Aziraphale’s smile was more of a grimace. A black raven flew overhead. Crowley watched it weave through the air with dread pitting her stomach. 

“Then remember that one time we almost got caught after that coronation banquet? And you had to pretend you’d gotten turned around and I was this tiny snake writhing around under your dress? And how you kept making those ridiculous giggling sounds because you were ticklish?”

 _Please let us get there._ Each time she asked Aziraphale how close they were, Aziraphale responded with soon. But soon didn’t help when the angel had gone so pale, when she stopped responding to Crowley’s jokes and snarls, had stopped smiling entirely. 

Why did she ever let them walk away from Avalon? Crowley gritted her teeth. She was so weak, too tightly wrapped around the angel’s finger. The ground rolled and shifted again, pulling itself to pieces. Aziraphale’s breath came out in rough gasps. 

“Maybe we should stop,” Crowley suggested. 

“We’re almost there.” Aziraphale sounded hoarse. Her finger pointed, and light extended from her fingers. Huge tattooed fingers spread the trees as if pushing away blades of grass. The whole world split and divided. The scent of apple blossoms filled the air.

Suddenly, they stood on the banks of a huge lake. Mossy stones layered like a path into the blue depths. Trees towered over the flat surface, protecting it from the world. It was the first time Crowley had seen Aziraphale’s lake in person. 

“Take me to the water,” Aziraphale gasped. “Quickly, darling.”

Together, they staggered into the cold water, up to their hips. Aziraphale turned to stand in front of Crowley. Blood seeped from her stomach into the water like ink plumes. Her armor melted around her, becoming the white dress worn by the lake women. 

Crowley’s chest was too tight. She had no idea what was going to happen and the thought terrified her. Something felt wrong. This shouldn’t be the end of their story. 

Aziraphale cupped her face. “You’ll have to wait for me, dear. I don’t know for how long, but I promise you, I will come back.”

“Where are you going?” Crowley began to cry. She pressed Aziraphale’s hands against her face, held them close. “This feels wrong. It feels different.”

Aziraphale’s smile was soft. “That’s because you’re a quene of air and darkness, love. This is a land of priestesses.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Whatever you wish,” Aziraphale said. “Just wait for me. This is the only way we can be together.” She leaned close, kissed Crowley with trembling lips, and let go. Crowley grabbed for her, but Aziraphale leaned back, spread her arms wide like wings. The water took her, pulled her far from Crowley. Her white veils floated transparent around her like ghosts. 

Terror slammed into Crowley. “Angel, come back,” she screamed and stumbled further into the water, following as best she could. She’d seen this scene before on a dark night. “Aziraphale, please, come back. Don’t leave me, not like this, _not like this.”_

But the angel floated further out, her eyes closed, her mouth half-parted. A pale tentacle snaked up from the depths and wrapped around Aziraphale’s middle. The lake monster pulled Aziraphale down, leaving nothing behind but bubbles peppering the surface.\

  
*** 

_The world of kings stank of horse shit and iron-forged metal. Crowley’s nose wrinkled in distaste as the king’s knights escorted her small envoy of sorceresses from the rundown outskirts of Camelot to the enclosed space of the Pendragon court. The pages and serving girls either stared at their black and purple dresses in awe or made a ward against evil with their hands. Crowley hated dressing in such a way, despised that she looked like all the other sorceresses, and wished she’d kept her leather breastplate, her cape of furs._

_Inside the court, the Holy Mother’s altar stood beside the crucifix with a god nailed to it in agony. They kissed the Pendragon’s hand out of tradition. Crowley studied Excalibur with a critical eye, and wondered if the king knew the cost of it. Then, she drank too much fine wine as knights, barons, and earls approached her, kissed her hands, asked her about her future prospects, wove a discussion of policy and alliance between compliments of her golden eyes._

_She wanted to hiss and spit at them. Wanted to shake off their touch, their lingering gaze. She belonged to another._

_The night after her virgin rite, she’d snuck out of the pile of sorceresses sleeping together for warmth. Slinking far into the woods, she sat cross-legged, trying to enter a state of relaxed consciousness. Aziraphale had left a brand on her lower lip: a mark of admittance. Out in the cold, her frazzled hopeful brain had failed to calm and in defiance, she’d fallen asleep on the hard ground. When she woke though, it was in a patch of sunlight next to a lake she’d never seen before. Aziraphale had knelt beside her with a bright smile. Her white long-sleeved dress looked blinding. Crowley had blinked and sat up, astounded. Aziraphale’s cheeks colored with a blush as she said,“Welcome to my lake, my dear.”_

_After that, Crowley only ever wanted to sleep. If she slept, she dreamed, and when she dreamed she was with Aziraphale. They drank cider brought from Avalon with their toes in the water. Crowley sang ridiculous shanties while Aziraphale doubled over in laughter. They lay on their backs and told each other stories of the stars. Aziraphale kissed her like she was precious, and Crowley loved her so much her heart was liable to split open with it. Aziraphale once worried that the dreams wouldn’t be enough, had let tears slip out that they could never be together in person, but Crowley didn’t care. The waking world was smelly and harsh. Aziraphale was soft and warm. The choice was clear—dream or no dream._

_Now, Crowley had taken her place as a woman of standing, had earned respect as a skilled sorceress. Yet the crossed-god had become popular, his reach turning them from honored women to snaggle-toothed witches. There were no new girls offered up to learn the way of the Queen. It became necessary to emerge from the woods. Make alliances. Which was why she’d ended up here, in this cold drafty castle. At least the tapestries were pretty._

_But if one more of those counts suggested she should be married off, that she’d make a fine wyfe…_

_The pages in charge of the court’s main door stood up straight and bowed. They opened the huge intricately carved handles and pulled the doors open. Women in white entered and the magic of Avalon cascaded into the room._

_Crowley held her breath as the sorceresses clustered together like threatened ducks. Their old animosity growled at the priestesses, vibrating from every woman. The Avalon priestesses glided through the court like swans: pinned hair, jewelry shimmering from their throats, beautiful where the sorceresses were crones. The men smiled in relief. These were women they knew and were comfortable with. The priestesses kissed the king’s hand, and as introductions were made, Crowley’s heart climbed up and out her throat. Standing there, a vision of gold and blue, was her angel. Not a dream. Not an illusion. Real._

_Crowley’s smile was slow to spread, but when it did, she knew it to be blinding. Wine continued to flow, a feast was laid out, mingling was encouraged. Crowley found her courage and approached the lady of the lake, tapping her on the shoulder and then dodging to the other side when Aziraphale looked over her shoulder. “Why, hello, Aziraphale!” she said._

_Queen of air and darkness, she was well and truly in her cups._

_“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s eyes widened._

_Aziraphale looked different in person, this close-up. Feeling reckless, Crowley took Aziraphale’s hands in her own, not caring who saw. Scars ran down Aziraphale’s forearms, as if something had clawed and ripped into her. Crowley’s courage tucked tail and fled. She swallowed hard, thumbed across the raised white lines and remembered that night of war._

_“Holy Mother help us,” Aziraphale hissed, her voice too prim and exasperated all at once. “Must you be so familiar?”_

_“You know I must,” Crowley said, sounding far away even to herself. A kind of paralysis began to work up her legs. Aziraphale was right. Why did she have to be so open, so forward, so familiar? In front of everyone, no less._

_Aziraphale made a frustrated sound and pushed them out of the court into one of the stone alcoves. The moonlight shone through the arched windows. Crowley thanked the Queen that she hadn’t dressed to impress, that the two of them could be any other priestess and sorceress. Considering the revelry that was beginning to pick up inside the court, her breach of societal norms wouldn’t be too noticed._

_“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked, shooting a look over her shoulder as if they might get caught._

_“Making nice with mankind,” Crowley said softly. This wasn’t what she’d expected, wasn’t how she thought their first meeting would go. She’d been pleasantly surprised, ecstatically happy, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to feel the same. Her disappointment encompassed her and quickly turned into anxious curls that whispered, You’ll never be enough, she’d never want you in the flesh._

_“Well, that would be a first. I knew the sorceresses were visiting, but I didn’t know you were. You should’ve said something.” Aziraphale took a step closer into Crowley’s orbit and Crowley’s confidence renewed. She knew what it meant when Aziraphale hemmed and hawed like that, when she bit her lip in that way. When her words didn’t match her actions. Aziraphale was playing hard to get, making sure she kept up decorum, which meant at some point, Crowley’s legs would be flung over Aziraphale’s shoulders._

_“Got the short straw, I suppose.” Crowley shrugged. Her fingers desperately wanted to touch Aziraphale’s white curls, sample their softness. “Don’t be cross.”_

_“That’s not…” Aziraphale studied her for a moment and her frown deepened with a troubling realization. She leaned forward, and claimed Crowley’s mouth suddenly. Kissed her hard and then pushed her off. Crowley grabbed her arm, played along with the angel’s resistance.“Why must you be so stubborn?” Crowley asked. “What’s wrong with wanting me out in the open?”_

_“We’re not supposed to be seen together,” Aziraphale whispered as if that explained everything, her hands finding the slight swell of Crowley’s waist to hip. “The implications…it could be exile for us both.”_

_“I wouldn’t mind.”_

_“Liar.” Aziraphale huffed a laugh and melted against her. “You love your magic just as much as I do. But you have no idea what it did to my heart, seeing you. I almost exploded with joy, but we have to be careful.”_

_“Maybe we should find some privacy, then,” Crowley suggested, lips soft against Aziraphale’s jaw. “Continue this conversation elsewhere. I’m supposed to make nice with Avalon, too, you know. Suppose I’ll be doing my sworn duty then, ravishing a representative of Avalon.”_

_“I do have a room.” Aziraphale looked up at Crowley through the fringe of eyelashes. “A bed.”_

_Crowley chuckled, her fingers addicted to the moonlight playing off Aziraphale’s cheeks, the way her eyes had a layer of gray in them. She stroked the scars on Aziraphale’s skin._

_“I, erm. I might look different. Here.” Aziraphale worried at her lip._

_“So do I,” Crowley said, thinking of her angles and sharp bones made by genetics, the way her ribs stuck out crafted by starvation, the way you could count the knobs of her spine. She nudged Aziraphale, leaned in for another kiss that Aziraphale didn’t fight. “Angel, come and take your white dress off.”_

_“Temptress.” Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand. “You should see the nice shoes I’m wearing.”_

_“Take them off, too.”_

_Later, Crowley decided she loved having a bed—a big, feathered one where she could hold Aziraphale in her arms and make her shake apart with pleasure, where she could watch the sun rise over Aziraphale’s sleeping form. Where she could stroke the scars flaring over Aziraphale’s back and kiss every single one of them._

_This was much better in reality._

  
***

Crowley wept for days. It felt as if a dam had burst inside her and everything she’d tried to keep back suddenly flooded out of her. 

The terror of being found together. The years of sneaking around, of pretending not to know each other in public, pared with the world-shattering passion when they could be alone. The fear when the relations between the followers of the Queen and the Holy Mother clashed. The decision of the sorceresses to leave the Pendragon court. The brewing war. The lingering hate. How Aziraphale and Crowley had been furious with each other, when each side wouldn’t bend. The days when she thought Aziraphale might leave her, that the needs of the Holy Mother superseded the vows they’d made together.

Most of all, she cried for a vision that had come true. Once, a terrible thunderstorm had enclosed Camelot for days. Crowley had spent her time in Aziraphale’s bed, barely dressed, her body aching from Aziraphale’s ministrations. They’d left the window open, letting the rain-saturated air freshen the room. Aziraphale had been reading and had fallen asleep with the book in her hand. Crowley had curled up against her, listening to the drum of rain. She hated the rain—it always left her chilled.

Lightning flashed, filling their room with blinding light. In that light, Crowley saw Aziraphale with her arms outspread, her face coated in blood, her white dress soaked, floating in water. From her wan stillness, Crowley knew Aziraphale was dead. That soon, in the future, the love of her life would be killed.

She’d been catapulted into a panic. Sobbing and clutching at Aziraphale who woke disoriented and whispered consoling words into her hair, who managed to finally calm her after a long time. Crowley had never told Aziraphale what she saw, only held the angel tight and trembled. It was the one and only vision she’d ever had. Despite everything she’d done to avoid it, it had happened anyway.

When she couldn’t cry anymore, she forced herself to her feet. Her numb mind took her through the motions of building a shelter out of hides. Soon, as days turned into weeks, that shelter became a home crafted out of stones. Crowley split firewood for her hearth. She checked her traps for rabbits. She fished the lake. Her hair grew long and wild. Dirt covered her face, grime she didn’t care to wash off. Loneliness colored her days and she moved through the motions of survival. She thought about leaving, breaking away from the lake to find out what happened to her people, if Avalon had succeeded in being lost in the mist. But what if she left, and she couldn’t find her way back? 

To remember how to speak, she began talking to Aziraphale’s ghost, re-telling favorite stories. 

“Remember when we handfasted?” she said as she foraged for roots. “You wore white then, too. We did it in both places. In front of the Queen. In front of the Holy Mother. Both traditions honored. Remember how mad you were when that knight proposed to me afterwards? I thought you might smite him.” She laughed. Dirt muddied her knees, but she had wild chives and water cress in her handwoven basket. “We renewed our vows every year since, angel. Remember? We were so happy.”

Every night, she would lie down outside, bundled in her new furs and leathers. She would study the flat plain of water, and hated how it looked like glass. Aziraphale had told her to wait, but it had been more than a year. It had been more than a year.

***

_When Crowley fell asleep this time, she emerged into a dreamscape full of nightmares. A throbbing headache pulsed against her temples. Before her, black plumes darkened Aziraphale’s lake, like blood or ink. The moon grinned at her with a mouth full of fangs. Power pressed against her on all sides as if she were an empty void it desperately wanted to fill._

_Her shadow-serpents unravelled from her and pawed against the ground, desperate. She gave them freedom and they urged her forward, faster. The lake suddenly spread open as if held back, water now two walls on either side of a path that wound down into the lake’s depths. The serpents writhed along the wet algae and black mud. Hurry, they whispered. Hurry._

_Crowley walked deeper into the lake, terrified of this unknown magic breaking and drowning her, until she heard the ring of metal-on-metal. A forge glowed in the distance. Aziraphale pounded a hammer against a white-hot stretch of glowing iron, forcing it into the shape of a sword. The serpent-shadows writhed in excitement, and reached out for the angel. Aziraphale’s hands weren’t her own—they were the huge tattooed ones of her magic, infusing the sword with symbols and light of the Holy Mother. Ash and dirt coated Aziraphale’s face and bare arms, her eyes glazed over with power as she crafted a huge broadsword._

_Crowley watched with wide eyes as the Holy Mother moved through Aziraphale, the lady of the lake. The serpent-shadows whispered against Aziraphale’s holy hands, weaving in and out as if protective, consoling, acting as rings and bracelets. Around her, the lake’s misplaced water roared like the ocean. Aziraphale never acknowledged her, being so possessed by magic urging her to create. Crowley never knew how much time passed, but at some point Aziraphale plunged the sword into the wall of water. Steam sizzled the air. When she pulled it out, she smiled and whispered, “Excalibur.”_

_The Holy Mother's hands shuddered. Aziraphale laid the sword down. The snakes writhed around Aziraphale, looped around her waist, swirled around her upper arms, draped over her neck. When she turned to look at Crowley, Crowley felt breathless with the surge of power cascading off of her in waves. Her blue eyes blazed as if feral. Her skin gleamed like faceted gems. The white-hot glow of fire infused in her long curls._

_Aziraphale was near insane with magic, magic that needed an outlet. Crowley’s serpent-shadows tugged at her, whispered their want to her, a desire that lived in Crowley’s heart._

_She stood and approached the angel. She didn’t know if this was what the Queen wanted of her, but when the Holy Mother’s hands possessed her body, when Aziraphale’s power thrummed around her inside and out, Crowley didn’t care. She knew then that she was where she was supposed to be._

  
***

The fishing line dipped into the water, cutting through the glass-blue surface and disappearing into the lake. The woven line of grass and fur wrapped around Crowley’s fingers. She studied the vibrant green moss coating the stones she sat on, the trees swaying in the wind, and let out a heavy sigh. Against her will, she’d become the old spinster witch in the woods, her solitary life now filled with moments of silence like these. Sorrow threatened to fill her, but she shook them off and filled her heart with memories of happiness, instead. 

The line tugged gently, something taking a bite at her wood-carved hook. She slowly pulled the line in. It tugged harder and Crowley frowned—a big catch. Large fish swam these waters, but Crowley always worried that one day she’d hook one of the monsters that lurked deep within the lake. The line went taut. Crowley yanked it in, scared of losing her hook. Water dripped from the line and coated her fingers. 

A pale shape wobbled underneath, pulled closer to the surface. When her catch emerged, it wasn’t a streamlined finned creature, but it had hands that attached to arms that attached to shoulders and neck. All familiar, all beloved. Aziraphale smiled at her as she broke the surface and tugged on the hook wound between her fingers. 

This couldn’t be real. Crowley had finally lost her mind. The solitude had broken her. Her mouth dropped open and she went still, watching and waiting for the illusion to disappear. 

Aziraphale crept closer to her. Her curls looked defined and roped across her cheeks—the flaxen hair cropped short like a man’s. The white veils clung to her, revealing those curves that Crowley adored. A soft sob escaped Crowley and still, she didn’t dare move. If she did, the illusion might disappear.

“Darling, have you been alone all this time?”Aziraphale whispered, and her hand slid into Crowley’s. At her touch, Crowley came alive, gripped those familiar hands tightly as if Aziraphale might suddenly decide to leave. She drank in the sight of her quene, her wyfe, stunned.

“You came back,” Crowley said dumbly.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, sliding closer and laying a close-mouthed kiss on Crowley’s cold lips. “I told you I would.”

“You missed our anniversary. We’re not handfasted anymore.” This was a point that Crowley wanted to make sure she got across, that Crowley had waited and Aziraphale had been late. 

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s face and peppered her cheeks with kisses. “I’m sure we can remedy that.” 

Crowley touched Aziraphale’s stomach, where the sword had cut her, nearly taking Aziraphale’s life. Crowley only found whole and well flesh. “Are you really here?” she whispered. “Is this really you?”

“Would never be anywhere else, my love.” Aziraphale took Crowley into her arms as if she were skittish, as if she might bolt as any wrong move. “I promised I’d come back to you. You’re essential to my very existence. I love you.”

Crowley’s breath stuttered out and finally, she let herself believe. She pulled Aziraphale close and buried her face in her neck. Something inside her eased, a painful knot she’d held tight inside. She hummed against Aziraphale’s skin and whispered, “Come and take your white dress off.”


End file.
